


hope and haunting

by redlace (RedLights)



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Domestic, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Happy Ending, Married Sex, Regency, Regency Romance, Safe Sane and Consensual, Smut, well not entirely sane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedLights/pseuds/redlace
Summary: Perhaps this was the end of the happiest she had ever been or would ever be, and she should make the most of it. So with her heart breaking inside her chest and her future collapsing around her, she opened for him like she always had, let his needy tongue claim her, let his strength overtake her fear and her grief and hoped he could taste how badly she had wanted this to work.Rewrite of the infamous chapter 18 of The Duke and I, because there is really no goddamn reason the heroine should r*pe the hero.
Relationships: Daphne Bridgerton/Simon Basset
Comments: 34
Kudos: 436





	1. Chapter 18

> _ Is This Author the only one who has noticed, or have the (gentle)men of the ton been imbibing more than usual these days? _
> 
> LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 JUNE 1813

Simon went out and did his best to get drunk. It wasn't something he did often. It wasn't even something he particularly enjoyed, but he did it anyway.

There were plenty of pubs down near the water, only a few miles from Clyvedon. And there were plenty of sailors there, too, looking for fights. Two of them found Simon.

He thrashed them both.

There was an anger in him, a fury that had simmered deep in his soul for years. It had finally found its way to the surface, and it had taken very little provocation to set him to fighting.

He was drunk enough by then so that when he punched, he saw not the sailors with their sun-reddened skin but his father. Every fist was slammed into that constant sneer of rejection. And it felt good. He'd never considered himself a particularly violent man, but damn, it felt good.

By the time Simon was through with the two sailors, no one else dared approach him. The local folk recognized strength, but more importantly they recognized rage. And they all knew that of the two, the latter was the more deadly.

Simon remained in the pub until the first lights of dawn streaked the sky. After a while he could stand to drink no more from the bottle he'd paid for, and it sat on the table as if to taunt him. The bad whiskey couldn’t burn through the rage, so what was the point of getting drunker? When it was time to go, he rose, dismayed to be standing on steady legs, and headed home. 

As he rode, the last of the liquor cleared from his mind. The haze of anger and frustration remained, along with the dull ache of reopened wounds. Only one thought permeated the fog: he wanted Daphne back. 

She was his wife, damn her. He'd gotten used to having her around. She couldn't just up and move out of their bedroom.

He'd get her back. He'd woo her and he'd win her, and—

He nearly chuckled at that. He was sad  and he was angry and he couldn’t give her what she wanted. Well, it was going to have to be enough to woo her and win her. 

He had tried to work himself into a fine state of manly self-righteousness by the time he reached Castle Clyvedon, but mostly he had just gotten tired. And by the time he dragged himself up to Daphne's door, he felt years and miles away from that rake  that could have won any woman. 

He knocked. “Daphne?” 

He sounded pathetic. Desperate. A little boy in front of a big, closed door. He knocked again, to no response. He leaned against the door, contemplating sleeping right there. “Oh, Daphne,” he sighed, his forehead coming to rest against the wood, “If you—”

The door opened and Simon went tumbling to the ground. 

Daphne, who was still yanking on her dressing gown, looked at the pile of dirty clothes that was her husband. “Good God, Simon,” she said, “What did you—” She leaned down to help him, then seemed to think better of it, and he clambered back into a standing position. 

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

He blinked and looked at her. “Out getting foxed,” he replied.

“You don’t seem drunk.”

“It didn’t work.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “You should be in bed. What do you expect me to do with you at the crack of dawn?” 

He looked plaintively at her. “Love me? You said you loved me, you know.” His expression was blank, but his eyes were tired in a way she’d never seen before. “I don't think you can take that back.”

Daphne let out a long sigh. She should be furious with him—blast it all, she was furious with him!—but it was difficult to maintain appropriate levels of anger when he looked so pathetic. She did love him, and she couldn’t stand seeing him like this. 

“I can’t talk about this now, Simon. Just go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.” 

The curtains were drawn, but the light of the new day was already filtering through. Simon nodded his head toward the window. “It’s tomorrow already.”

“Then we'll talk about it in the evening,” she said, a touch desperately. She already felt as if her heart had been pushed through a windmill; she didn't think she could bear any more just then. “Please, Simon, let's just leave it be for now.”

“No.” And then, meeting her eyes for the first time since he’d fallen through the door, “No! We can’t always talk about it tomorrow, Daphne. I need you to understand that I can’t do it.” 

She nearly flinched at the haunted misery in his eyes, the exhaustion in his voice. 

“I never wanted to hurt you, Daff,” he said hoarsely. “You know that, don't you?”

She sat down on the bed and nodded. “I know that, Simon.” 

“Good, because the thing is—” He sat too, then drew a long breath that seemed to shake his entire body. “I can't do what you want.”

She said nothing.

“All my life,” Simon said sadly, “all my life he won. This time I have to win. I want to win, for once.”

“Oh, Simon,” she whispered. “You won long ago. The moment you exceeded his expectations you won. Every time you beat the odds, made a friend, or traveled to a new land you won. You did all the things he never wanted for you.” Her breath caught, and she gave his shoulders a squeeze. “You beat him. You won. Why can't you see that?”

He shook his head. “I don't want to become what he wanted,” he said. “Even though—” He hiccuped. “Even though he never expected it of m-me, what he w-wanted was a perfect son, someone who'd be the perfect d-duke, who'd then m-marry the perfect duchess, and have p-perfect children.”

Daphne's lower lip caught between her teeth. He was stuttering again. He must be truly upset. She felt her heart breaking for him, for the little boy who'd wanted nothing other than his father's approval.

Simon looked at her, then down at the ground. “He would have approved of you.”

“Oh,” Daphne said, not sure how to interpret that.

“But”—he shrugged—“I married you anyway.”

He looked so earnest, so boyishly serious, that it was a hard battle not to throw her arms around him and attempt to comfort him. But no matter how deep his pain, or how wounded his soul, he was going about this all wrong. The best revenge against his father would simply be to live a full and happy life, to achieve all those heights and glories his father had been so determined to deny him.

Daphne swallowed a heavy sob of frustration. She didn't see how he could possibly lead a happy life if all of his choiceswere based on thwarting the wishes of a dead man. Tears catching in her throat, facing this overwhelming wall between them, she didn’t have the energy to climb it. She just didn’t. 

“Please, please go to bed. Please let’s have some rest before we hash this all out again. I don’t”—she had to swallow and blink against the emotions she was too weary to address—“I don’t think I can do this for us right now. I need rest.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes filling with an ages-old need for comfort. “Don't leave me,” he whispered.

“Simon,” she choked out.

“Please don't. Everyone leaves. Then I left.” He squeezed her hand. “Please stay.”

She nodded shakily. “Fine. You can sleep here.”

“And you'll stay with me?”

It was a mistake. She knew it was a mistake, but still she said, “I'll stay with you.”

“Good.” He stood like a man decades older, as if the sadness had brittled his very bones. “Because I couldn't—I really—” He sighed and turned anguished eyes to her. “I need you.”

He pulled off his boots and shucked all but his shirt and breeches onto the floor, then climbed atop the covers and closed his eyes with a sigh.

He looked young and peaceful with his dark lashes resting against his cheeks. Daphne reached out and brushed his hair off his forehead. “Sleep well, my sweet,” she whispered.

She removed her nightrobe and hesitated a moment before laying beside him and pulling a blanket over them both. He was warm, and he was hers, and even if she had grave fears for their future, at that moment she couldn't resist his gentle embrace.

Daphne awoke an hour or so later, surprised that she'd fallen asleep at all. Simon still lay next to her. His clothes smelled of whiskey and sweat. 

Gently, she touched his cheek. “What am I to do with you?” she whispered. “I love you, you know. I love you, but I have what you're doing to yourself.” She drew a shaky breath. “And to me. I hate what you're doing to me.”

He shifted sleepily, and for one horrified moment, she was afraid that he'd woken up. “Simon?” she whispered, then let out a relieved exhale when he didn't answer. She knew she shouldn't have spoken words aloud that she wasn't quite ready for him to hear, but he'd looked so innocent against the snowy white pillows. It was far too easy to spill her innermost thoughts when he looked like that.

“Oh, Simon,” she sighed, closing her eyes against the tears that were pooling in her eyes. She should get up. She should absolutely positively get up now and leave him to his rest. She understood why he was so dead set against bringing a child into this world, but she hadn't forgiven him, and she certainly didn't agree with him. If he woke up with her still in his arms, he might think she was willing to settle for his version of a family.

Slowly, reluctantly, she tried to pull away. But his arms tightened around her, and his sleepy voice mumbled, “No.”

“Simon, I—”

He pulled her closer and exhaled. “You promised.”

“No, _you_ promised, and that doesn’t seem to mean anything!” Her mouth dropped open in shock at the force of her words, at how suddenly and completely the anger had come. She hadn’t meant to say it, but she did mean it.

His eyes flew open and his brow furrowed. 

She pushed herself up and looked away, trying to find the words without the rage, trying to breathe through the fire in her chest. “You made a promise when you said you loved me, and you made a promise when you married me, and you’re breaking it. You won’t live a full life with me, and you let me think you would. You let me marry you under false pretenses, and now you’re acting like I’m in the wrong because I can’t—“ Her voice broke, and he sat up straight as if to put his arms around her, but his hands only lifted uselessly and then fell back down. Her chest heaved, a sob without even the dignity of tears. “I can’t watch you throw away your chance to have everything and I can’t let you ruin mine. It’s not fair.”

Simon groaned. “Can’t you understand? Can’t you see how angry I am?”

“ _You’re_ angry? You?” She stood abruptly and paced across the room, taking a deep breath. “Your anger is what you hold onto so that you never have to confront your pain and you never have to move on. Men get to do that. You’re going to be angry instead of being hurt because if you were just  hurt you might have to let someone heal you.” She chuckled mirthlessly, tears hot in her eyes. “You get to decide what kind of life you want to live and you’re choosing _wrong_ , all while you hold my entire existence on a string. Don’t talk to me about angry, Simon, I can’t stand it. My husband could have everything in the world and he’s throwing it away and he won’t let me have any say in the matter because I’m just a woman he married. I know about angry.” She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly chilled, and looked away.

Her husband seemed at a loss for words, sitting at the edge of the bed with his hands gripping the mattress and his head hanging down. It was quiet for a moment. 

“Where does that leave us?” He said hoarsely, dark eyes meeting hers. “If I can’t give you what you want, and you can’t let it go, where does that leave us?”

She drew in a jagged breath, looking helplessly back at him, mouth half-open, knowing what the answer was and unable to say it. She couldn’t accept a half-life with a husband whose heart was buried in a dead past; and she couldn’t, she _wouldn’t_ force him to live a life he didn’t choose.

He saw in her face what her voice would not say and pushed himself up, crossing the distance between them in two long strides. His hands wrapped around her shoulders and held her to him, and she felt as small and weak as she ever had. “Please don’t do this,” he said fiercely, and gathered her closer with one arm wrapped around her waist and a hand gripping her jaw, keeping her eyes on him. “I can’t lose you. Please.”

And when he crushed his lips to hers, she let him. His kiss was angry and urgent and desperate and she melted into it. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could show him with her body how good this could be, how brilliant it would feel to let go. Perhaps if she put her love into a language he would understand she would reach him in a way her words couldn’t seem to.

And if she couldn’t, perhaps this was the end of the happiest she had ever been or would ever be, and she should make the most of it. So with her heart breaking inside her chest and her future collapsing around her, she opened for him like she always had, let his needy tongue claim her, let his strength overtake her fear and her grief and hoped he could taste how badly she had wanted this to work. He took her with him as he backed towards the bed, pausing to tear off his shirt and yank at the drawstring of her nightgown. He lay back and she climbed atop him.

She pulled her head back so she could see his face, realizing she should be savoring this, and reached out and touched the line of his jaw. He groaned, a deep, hoarse sound, and it made her stomach flutter with need. With slow, tantalizing fingers she traced the trail of dark hair down his torso, and then quickly undid his trousers. Underneath, he was hard and needy, and she wrapped her hand around him, feeling his blood leap beneath her fingers.

“Daphne,” he gasped. His eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a ragged groan. “Oh, God. That feels so damned good.”

“Shhhh,” she crooned. “Just let me feel you.”

He lay on his back, his hands fisted at his sides as she stroked him. He'd taught her much during their two short weeks of marriage, and soon he was squirming with desire, his breath coming in short pants.

And God help her, she wanted him, too. At least she could feel powerful here, making his body prove how much he wanted her, finding the only understanding they could find anymore.

She needed him inside her, filling her, to feel at least for a moment like they were truly man and wife. 

“Oh, Daphne,” he moaned, his head tossing from side to side. “I need you. I need you now.”

She moved atop him, pressing her hands against his shoulders as she straddled him. Using her hand, she guided him to her entrance, already wet with need.

Simon arched beneath her, and she slowly slid down his shaft, until he was almost fully within her. “More,” he gasped. “Now.”

Daphne's head fell back as she moved down that last inch. Her hands clutched at his shoulders as she gasped for breath. Then he was completely within her, and she thought she would die from the pleasure. Never had she felt so full, so bursting with her own capacity for pleasure, for love.

She keened as she moved above him, her body arching and writhing with delight. Her hands splayed flat against her stomach as she twisted and turned, then slid upward toward her breasts.

Simon let out a guttural moan as he watched her, his eyes glazing over as his breath came hot and heavy over his parted lips. “Oh, my God,” he said in a hoarse, raspy voice. “What have you—” Then she touched one of her nipples, and his entire body bucked upwards. “Where did you learn that?”

She looked down and gave him a bewildered smile. “I don't know.”

“More,” he groaned. “I want to watch you.”

Daphne wasn't entirely certain what to do, so she just let instinct take over. She ground her hips against his in a circular motion as she arched her back, her breasts jutting forwards. She cupped both in her hands, squeezing them softly, rolling the nipples between her fingers, never once taking her eyes off Simon's face.

His hips started to buck in a frantic, jerky motion, and he grasped desperately at the sheets with his large hands. And Daphne realized that he was almost there. He was always so careful to please her, to make certain that she reached her climax before he allowed himself the same privilege, but this time, he was going to explode first.

She was close, but not as close as he was.

“Oh, Christ!” he suddenly burst out, his voice harsh and primitive with need. “I'm going to—I can't—” 

His eyes pinned upon her and then he was flipping them over, all but throwing her against the bed and pressing their bodies together. He thrust once, twice, again, so forcefully and so deep within her she nearly screamed as stars burst behind her eyes and then he was gone and she was empty, her innermost muscles clutching against nothing.

As she felt his release hit her stomach the tears began to fall freely. She wept silently as he shuddered and then collapsed above her, biting her quivering lip. By the time he had caught his breath, she knew it was over.

“I can’t do this anymore.” Daphne whispered.

Simon raised his head from the crook of her neck to look at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes. She knew how broken he must look, and if she let herself feel any more of his pain she would never have the strength to take care of her own. Her tears were running off the sides of her cheeks, and she felt his warm hands wipe them gently away. 

She couldn’t help it. She captured his hand in hers, kissing his open palm, hoping he could feel in it how much she wished it could be different. Daphne took in the face she had come to love so well, smoothing her hands over his springy, close-cropped curls, and met his gaze. “I’m so sorry, Simon.” Her voice was cracking. “I’m so sorry.” And then he held her tight as she wept, every muscle tensed around her as she trembled and his bare chest grew slick with saltwater. They didn’t move or speak again, and when she had no tears left she lapsed into sleep, cradled against him. 

When she woke again, he was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m trying to preserve as much of the original text and plot as I can, while removing the uncomfy stuff. The next few chapters won’t stray far from their original versions except to change references of Daphne violating Simon. I’m all about the old-fashioned romp but I want to finish the series with some peace of mind!


	2. Chapter 19

> _ The new Duchess of Hastings was spotted in Mayfair today. Philipa Featherington saw the former Miss Daphne Bridgerton taking a bit of air as she walked briskly around the block. Miss Featherington called out to her, but the duchess pretended not to hear. _
> 
> _ And we know the duchess must have been pretending, for after all, one would have to be deaf to let one of Miss Featherington's shouts go unnoticed. _
> 
> LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 June 1813

Heartache, Daphne eventually learned, never really went away; it just dulled. The sharp, stabbing pain that one felt with each breath eventually gave way to a blunter, lower ache—the kind that one could almost—but never quite—ignore.

One of the maids had given her a note that fateful afternoon, when she’d finally managed to rise from the bed under the weight of the decision she’d made. 

_ Pressing business at another of my estates requires my attention. I will not disturb you.  _

_ My steward will give you my direction, should you need it. _

_ Simon _

She'd thought her love was so good, so shining, so pure that Simon would immediately abandon the years of resentment and pain that had fueled his very existence. How self-important she'd been. How stupid she felt now. Some things were beyond her reach. In her sheltered life, she'd never realized that until now. She hadn't expected the world to be handed to her upon a golden platter, but she'd always assumed that if she worked hard enough for something, treated everyone the way she would like to be treated, then she would be rewarded.

But not this time. Simon was beyond her reach, and now she was alone in the house that should have been their family’s. She had to go home.

She had left Castle Clyvedon the day after Simon's departure, heading to London with every intention of returning to Bridgerton House. But going back to her family's house somehow seemed like an admission of failure, and so at the last minute, she instructed the driver to take her to Hastings House instead. She would be near her family if she felt the need for their support and companionship, but she was a married woman now; she should reside in her own home.

And so she introduced herself to her new staff, who accepted her without question (but not without a considerable amount of curiosity), and set about her new life as an abandoned wife.

Her mother was the first to come calling. Daphne hadn't bothered to notify anyone else of her return to London, so this was not terribly surprising.

“Where is he?” Violet demanded without preamble.

“My husband, I presume?”

“No, your great-uncle Edmund,” Violet practically snapped. “Of course I mean your husband.”

Daphne didn't quite meet her mother's eyes as she said, “I believe that he is tending to affairs at one of his country estates.”

“You believe?”

“Well, I know,” Daphne amended.

“And do you know why you are not with him?”

Daphne considered lying. She considered brazening it out and telling her mother some nonsense about an emergency involving tenants and maybe some livestock or disease or anything. But in the end, her lip quivered, and her eyes started to prick with tears, and her voice was terribly small, as she said, “Because I told him to go without me.”

Violet took her hands. “Oh, Daff,” she sighed, “what happened?”

Daphne sank onto a sofa, pulling her mother along with her. “More than I could ever explain.”

“Do you want to try?”

Daphne shook her head. She'd never, not even once in her life, kept a secret from her mother. There had never been anything she didn't feel she could discuss with her.

But there had never been this.

She patted her mother's hand. “I'll be all right.”

Violet looked unconvinced. “Are you certain?”

“No.” Daphne stared at the floor for a moment. “But I have to believe it, anyway.”

Violet left, and Daphne was alone again.

Colin was the next to visit. About a week later, Daphne returned from a quick walk in the park to find him standing in her drawing room, arms crossed, expression furious.

“Ah,” Daphne said, pulling off her gloves, “I see you've learned of my return.”

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

Colin, Daphne reflected wryly, had clearly not inherited their mother's talent for subtlety in speech.

“Speak!” he barked.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Just a moment to try to relieve the headache that had been plaguing her for days. She didn't want to tell her woes to Colin. She didn't even want to tell him as much as she told her mother, although she supposed he already knew. News always traveled fast at Bridgerton House.

She wasn't really sure where she got the energy, but there was a certain fortifying benefit to putting up a good front, so she squared her shoulders, raised a brow, and said, “And by that you mean…?”

“I mean,” Colin growled, “where is your husband?”

“He is otherwise occupied,” Daphne replied. It sounded so much better than, “I threw him out.”

“Daphne…” Colin's voice held no end of warning.

“Are you here alone?” she asked, ignoring his tone.

“Anthony and Benedict are in the country for the month, if that's what you mean,” Colin said.

Daphne very nearly sighed with relief. The last thing she needed just then was to face her eldest brother. She'd already prevented him from killing Simon once; she wasn't sure if she'd be able to manage the feat a second time. Before she could say anything, however, Colin added, “Daphne, I am ordering you right now to tell me where the bastard is hiding.”

Daphne felt her spine stiffening. She might have the right to call her husband nasty names, but her brother certainly didn't. “I assume,” she said icily, “that by ‘that bastard’ you refer to my husband.”

“You're damned right I—”

“I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

Colin looked at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted horns. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don't care to discuss my marriage with you, so if you cannot refrain from offering your unsolicited opinions, you're going to have to leave.”

“You can't ask me to leave,” he said in disbelief.

She crossed her arms. “This is my house.”

Colin stared at her, then looked around the room—the drawing room of the Duchess of Hastings—then looked back at Daphne, as if just realizing that his little sister, whom he'd always viewed as rather a jolly extension of himself, had become her own woman.

He reached out and took her hand. “Daff,” he said quietly, “I'll let you handle this as you see fit.”

“Thank you.”

“For now,” he warned. “Don't think I'll let this situation continue indefinitely.”

Little did he know how long it would continue. Her stubborn, wounded husband would not change his mind, and she could not bear to be near him if she couldn’t help him, if they couldn’t make each other whole. There was no light at the end of this. She wondered if she would ever speak to him again, and if it would ever stop hurting so much. 

Finally, after weeks of nursing her wounds (unsuccessfully) and trying not to beg him one last time to change his mind, she gave in and sat at her writing desk without a clue of what to say.

Unfortunately for Daphne, she had only gotten as far as “Dear Simon,” when her brother Anthony, obviously returned from his sojourn in the country, came crashing into the room. Since Daphne was upstairs, in her private chamber, where she was not supposed to receive visitors, she didn't even want to think about how many servants he had injured on his way up.

He looked furious, and she knew she probably shouldn't provoke him, but he always made her slightly sarcastic, so she asked, “And how did you get up here? Don't I have a butler?”

“You had a butler,” he growled.

“Oh, dear.”

“Where is he?”

“Not here, obviously.” There didn't seem any point in pretending she didn't know exactly who he was talking about.

“I'm going to kill him.”

Daphne stood, eyes flashing. “No, you're not!”

Anthony, who had been standing with his hands on his hips, leaned forward and speared her with a stare. “I made a vow to Hastings before he married you, did you know that?”

She shook her head.

“I reminded him that I had been prepared to kill him for damaging your reputation. Heaven help him if he damages your soul.”

“He hasn't damaged my soul, Anthony.” Her eyes flickered away. “Well, not on purpose, anyway.”

But if Anthony found her words odd, she would never know, because his eyes strayed to her writing table, then narrowed. “What is that?” he asked.

Daphne followed his line of vision to the mostly-blank paper that constituted her attempt at a letter to Simon. “It's nothing,” she said with a sigh.

“You're writing him a letter, aren't you?” Anthony's already stormy expression grew positively thunderous. “Oh, for the love of God, don't try to lie about it. I saw his name at the top of the paper.”

“There’s nothing to say,” she admitted. “I told him to leave. You can’t blame him for listening.”

Anthony eyed the paper as if he could, in fact, think of a great many things to say. Finally, he just looked back at Daphne, and said, “That’s no excuse. I'm not going let him get away with this.”

“Anthony, this isn't your affair.”

He didn't dignify that with a reply. “I'll find him, you know. I'll find him, and I'll kill—”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Daphne finally exploded. “This is my marriage, Anthony, not yours. And if you interfere in my affairs, so help me God, I swear I will never speak to you again.”

Her eyes were steady, and her tone was forceful, and Anthony looked slightly shaken by her words. “Very well,” he muttered, “I won't kill him.”

“Thank you,” Daphne said, rather sarcastically.

“But I will find him,” Anthony vowed. “And I will make my disapproval clear.”

Daphne took one look at his face and knew that he meant it. “Very well,” she said. “But only if you make me a promise.”

“Which is…?”

“You must promise not to hurt him.”

“Oh, now, wait one second, Daphne,” Anthony burst out. “You ask far too much.”

She shrugged. “Then you may not go.”

“I can get his address,” he returned.

“No, you can't, and you know it,” Daphne shot back. “He has no end of estates. It'd take you weeks to figure out which one he's visiting.”

“A-ha!” Anthony said triumphantly. “So he's at one of his estates. You, my dear, let slip a vital clue.”

“Is this a game?” Daphne asked in amazement.

“Just tell me where he is.”

“Not unless you promise—no violence, Anthony.” She crossed her arms. “I mean it.”

“All right,” he mumbled.

“Say it.”

“You're a hard woman, Daphne Bridgerton.”

“It's Daphne Basset, and I've had good teachers.”

“I promise,” he said—barely. His words weren't precisely crisp.

“I need a bit more than that,” Daphne said. She uncrossed her arms and twisted her right hand in a rolling manner, as if to draw forth the words from his lips. “I promise not to…”

“I promise not to hurt your bloody idiot of a husband,” Anthony spat out. “There. Is that good enough?”

“Certainly,” Daphne said congenially. She reached into a drawer and pulled out the letter she'd received earlier that week from Simon's steward, giving his address. “Here you are.”

Anthony took it with a decidedly ungraceful—and ungrateful—swipe of his hand. He glanced down, scanned the lines, then said, “I'll be back in four days.”

“You're leaving today?” Daphne asked, surprised.

“I don't know how long I can keep my violent impulses in check,” he drawled.

“Then by all means, go today,” Daphne said.

He did.

* * *

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull your lungs out through your mouth.”

Simon looked up from his desk to see a travel-dusty Anthony Bridgerton, fuming in the doorway to his study. “It's nice to see you, too, Anthony,” he murmured.

Anthony entered the room with all the grace of a thunderstorm, planted his hands on Simon's desk and leaned forward menacingly. “Would you mind telling me why my sister is in London, crying herself to sleep every night, while you're in—” He looked around the office and scowled. “Where the hell are we?”

“Wiltshire,” Simon supplied.

“While you're in Wiltshire, puttering around an inconsequential estate?”

“Daphne's in London?”

“You'd think,” Anthony growled, “that as her husband you'd know that.”

“You'd think a lot of things,” Simon muttered, “but most of the time, you'd be wrong.” It had been two months since he'd left Clyvedon. Two months since he'd looked at Daphne and realized even if he’d been able to utter a word, nothing he could say would fix them. Two months of utter emptiness.

In all honesty, Simon wasn't exactly certain why, but he'd thought she would have contacted him sooner. Daphne wasn't usually the sort to stew in silence when she was upset; he'd half expected her to track him down and explain in six different ways why he was an utter fool to leave even if she’d asked him to. 

And truth be told, after about a month, he'd half wished she would. But this was different, and he couldn’t blame her for keeping away, even if it killed him.

“I would tear your bloody head off,” Anthony growled, breaking into Simon's thoughts with considerable force, “if I hadn't promised Daphne I wouldn't do you bodily harm.”

“I'm sure that wasn't a promise easily made,” Simon said.

Anthony crossed his arms and settled a heavy stare on Simon's face. “Nor easily kept.”

Simon cleared his throat as he tried to figure out some way to ask about Daphne without seeming too obvious. He missed her. He felt like an idiot, he felt like a fool, but he missed her. He missed her laugh  and her scent and the way, in the middle of the night, she always managed to tangle her legs with his.

Simon was used to being alone, but he wasn't used to being this lonely.

“Did Daphne send you to fetch me back?” he finally asked.

“No.” Anthony glared at him. “I caught her trying to write to you, but she didn’t send me with a letter.”

Simon realized what that must mean. This was for good, then, their separation, if she had nothing left to say to him. He tried to say something neutral, such as “I see,” but his throat closed up.

“I did tell her I'd be happy to conduct a letter to you,” Anthony said, with considerable sarcasm.

Simon ignored him, hoping that Anthony would not see how his hands were shaking.

But Anthony did see. “What the devil is wrong with you?” he asked in an abrupt voice. “You look like hell.”

“Always a pleasure to see you, too,” Simon managed to quip.

Anthony gazed steadily at him, the battle between anger and concern showing clearly on his face. Clearing his throat a few times, Anthony finally asked, in a surprisingly gentle tone, “Are you ill?”

“Of course not.”

Anthony went pale. “Is Daphne ill?”

Simon's head snapped up. “Not that she's told me. Why? Does she look ill? Has she—”

“No, she looks fine.” Anthony's eyes filled with curiosity. “Simon,” he finally asked, shaking his head, “what are you doing here? It's obvious you love her. And much as I can't comprehend it, she seems to love you as well.”

Simon pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to stave off the pounding headache he never seemed to be without these days. “There are things you don't know,” he said wearily, shutting his eyes against the pain. “Things you could never understand.”

Anthony was silent for a full minute. Finally, just when Simon opened his eyes, Anthony pushed away from the desk and walked back to the door. “I won't drag you back to London,” he said in a low voice. “I should but I won't. Daphne needs to know you came for her, not because her older brother had a pistol at your back.”

Simon almost pointed out that that was why he'd married her, but he bit his tongue. That wasn't the truth. Not all of it, at least. In another lifetime, he'd have been on bended knee, begging for her hand.

“You should know, however,” Anthony continued, “that people are starting to talk. Daphne returned to London alone, barely a fortnight after your rather hasty marriage. She's keeping a good face about it, but it's got to hurt. No one has actually come out and insulted her, but there's only so much well-meaning pity a body can take. And that damned Whistledown woman has been writing about her.”

Simon winced. He'd not been back in England long, but it was long enough to know that the fictitious Lady Whistledown could inflict a great deal of damage and pain.

Anthony swore in disgust. “Get yourself to a doctor, Hastings. And then get yourself back to your wife.” With that, he strode out the door.

Simon stared at his empty hands for many minutes. Seeing Anthony had been a shock. Knowing he'd just been with Daphne made Simon's heart ache.

Bloody hell. He hadn't expected to miss her, after she’d left him like everyone else.

But he hadn’t gone just because she’d asked him to. He could have demanded to stay, in his own home. But he just didn't know if he could live with her if it meant going back to being the boy wasn’t good enough. He tried to remind himself of their courtship—their mock-courtship, he thought with a smile—and to remember how easy it had been to be with her, to talk with her. But every memory was tainted by where it had all led—to Daphne's bedroom that hideous morning, both of them in tears as they accepted that they had failed, that wanting each other wasn’t enough. He couldn’t give her enough.

And he hated it.

So he'd fled to another of his country estates—as a duke, he had a number of them. This particular house was in Wiltshire, which, he had reasoned, wasn't too terribly far from Clyvedon. He could get back in a day and a half if he rode hard enough. It wasn't so much like he'd run away, if he could go back so easily.

Simon sat alone for a long while, warring with himself. He rolled Daphne’s words over and over in his head, and then Anthony’s, knowing without wanting to that they were both right, and still feeling frozen. 

Then finally, a breeze washed over him, or perhaps the light changed, or the house creaked—but something broke him out of his reverie and he jumped to his feet, strode into the hall, and bellowed for his butler.

“Have my carriage hitched,” he barked when the butler appeared. “I'm going to London.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you’ve read the books you know i really didn’t change much, so all due credit to julia quinn. i’ll have the next two chapters tomorrow and the next day! happy holidays everyone :)


	3. Chapter 21

> _ The marriage of the season seems to have gone sour. The Duchess of Hastings (formerly Miss Bridgerton) returned to London nearly two months ago, and This Author has seen neither hide nor hair of her new husband, the duke. _
> 
> _ Rumor has it that he is not at Clyvedon, where the once happy couple took their honeymoon. Indeed, This Author cannot find anyone who professes to know his whereabouts. (If her grace knows, she is not telling, and furthermore, one rarely has the opportunity to ask, as she has shunned the company of all except her rather large and extensive family.) _
> 
> _ It is, of course, This Author's place and indeed duty to speculate on the source of such rifts, but This Author must confess that even she is baffled. They seemed so very much in love… _
> 
> LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 AUGUST 1813

The trip took two days, which was two days longer than Simon would have liked to be alone with his thoughts. He'd brought a few books to read, hoping to keep himself distracted during the tedious journey, but whenever he managed to open one it sat unread in his lap.

It was difficult to keep his mind off Daphne.

It was even more difficult to keep his mind off what he might have to do, once he was there. He couldn’t honestly say he was ready to give her a child, wasn’t even sure he wanted to. But he knew she was in pain, and so was he, and he had married her for better or worse. Staying apart was no solution.

Once he reached London, he gave his driver instructions to take him directly to Bridgerton House. He was travel-weary, and probably could use a change of clothing, but he'd done nothing for the past two days but play out his upcoming confrontation with Daphne—it seemed foolish to put it off any longer than he had to.

Once admitted to Bridgerton House, however, he discovered that Daphne wasn't there.

“What do you mean,” Simon asked in a deadly voice, not particularly caring that the butler had done little to earn his ire, “the duchess isn't here?”

The butler took his deadly voice and raised him one curled upper lip. “I mean, your grace”—this was not said with particular graciousness—“that she is not in residence.”

“I was specifically told that my wife has removed herself to London.”

“And she has, your grace.”

“Then where the hell is she?” Simon ground out.

The butler merely raised a brow. “At Hastings House, your grace.”

Simon clamped his mouth shut. There was little more humiliating than being bested by a butler.

“After all,” the butler continued, clearly enjoying himself now, “she is married to you, is she not?”

Simon glared at him. “You must be quite secure in your position.”

“Quite.”

Simon gave him a brief nod (since he couldn't quite bring himself to thank the man) and stalked off, feeling very much like a fool.

If he could have kicked himself on the way back to the carriage, he would have done so.

Once inside, however, he did kick himself. He lived just across Grosvenor Square from the Bridgertons. He could have walked across the blasted green in half the time.

Time, however, proved not to be particularly of the essence, because when he swung open the door to Hastings House and stomped into the hall, he discovered that his wife was not at home.

“She's riding,” Jeffries said.

Simon stared at his butler in patent disbelief. “She's riding?” he echoed.

“Yes, your grace,” Jeffries replied. “Riding. On a horse.”

Simon wondered what the penalty was for strangling a butler. “Where,” he bit off, “did she go?”

“Hyde Park, I believe.”

Simon's blood began to pound, and his breath grew uneven. He came all the way here to throw himself at her feet and beg her to reconsider, and she was off on a joyride. Marriage couldn’t possibly be this hard for everyone, or so many people wouldn’t do it. 

“Have a horse saddled for me,” Simon ordered. “Immediately.”

“Any particular horse?” Jeffries inquired.

“A fast one,” Simon snapped. “And do it now. Or better yet, I'll do it.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of the house.

But about halfway to the stables, his irrational anger started to give way to the creeping fear that once he found her he would still not be enough for her, and Simon's stride quickened, determined to outrun an impending lifetime without her.

* * *

It wasn't the same as riding astride, Daphne thought, but at least she was going fast.

In the country, when she'd been growing up, she'd always borrowed Colin's breeches and joined her brothers on their hell-for-leather rides. Her mother usually suffered an attack of the vapors every time she saw her eldest daughter return covered with mud, and quite frequently sporting a new and startling bruise, but Daphne hadn't cared. She hadn't cared where they were riding to or what they were riding from. It had all been about speed.

In the city, of course, she couldn't don breeches and thus was relegated to the sidesaddle, but if she took her horse out early enough, when fashionable society was still abed, and if she made certain to limit herself to the more remote areas of Hyde Park, she could bend over her saddle and urge her horse to a gallop. The wind whipped her hair out of its bun and stung her eyes to tears, but at least it made her forget.

Atop her favorite mare, tearing across the fields, she felt free. There was no better medicine for a broken heart.

She'd long since ditched her groom, pretending she hadn't heard him when he'd yelled, “Wait! Your grace! Wait!”

She'd apologize to him later. The grooms at Bridgerton House were used to her antics and well aware of her skill atop a horse. This new man—one of her husband's servants—would probably worry.

Daphne felt a twinge of guilt—but only a twinge. She needed to be alone. She needed to move fast.

She slowed down as she reached a slightly wooded area and took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sounds and smells of the park fill her senses. She thought of a blind man she'd once met, who'd told her that the rest of his senses had grown sharper since he'd lost his sight. As she sat there and inhaled the scents of the forest, she thought he might be right.

She listened hard, first identifying the high-pitched chirp of the birds, then the soft, scurrying feet of the squirrels as they hoarded nuts for the winter. Then—

She frowned and opened her eyes. Damn. That was definitely the sound of another rider approaching.

Daphne didn't want company. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts and her pain, and she certainly didn't want to have to explain to some well-meaning society member why she was alone in the park. She listened again, identified the location of the oncoming rider, and took off in the other direction.

She kept her horse to a steady trot, thinking that if she just got out of the other rider's way, he'd pass her by. But whichever way she went, he seemed to follow.

She picked up speed, more speed than she should have in this lightly wooded area. There were too many low branches and protruding tree roots. But now Daphne was starting to get scared. Her pulse pounded in her ears as a thousand horrifying questions rocked through her head.

What if this rider wasn't, as she'd originally supposed, a member of the ton? What if he was a criminal? Or a drunk? It was early; there was no one about. If Daphne screamed, who would hear her? Was she close enough to her groom? Had he stayed put where she'd left him or had he tried to follow? And if he had, had he even gone in the right direction?

Her groom! She nearly cried out in relief. It had to be her groom. She swung her mare around to see if she could catch a glimpse of the rider. The Hastings livery was quite distinctly red; surely she'd be able to see if—

_ Smack! _

Every bit of air was violently forced from her body as a branch caught her squarely in the chest. A strangled grunt escaped her lips, and she felt her mare moving forward without her. And then she was falling…falling…

She landed with a bone-jarring thud, the autumn brown leaves on the ground providing scant cushioning. Her body immediately curled into a fetal position, as if by making herself as small as possible, she could make the hurt as small as possible.

And, oh God, she hurt. Damn it, she hurt everywhere. She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on breathing. Her mind flooded with curses she'd never dared speak aloud. But it hurt. Bloody hell, it hurt to breathe.

But she had to. _Breathe. Breathe, Daphne,_ she ordered. _Breathe, Breathe. You can do it._

“Daphne!”

Daphne made no response. The only sounds she seemed able to make were whimpers. Even groans were beyond her capability.

“Daphne! Christ above, Daphne!”

She heard someone jump off a horse, then felt movement in the leaves around her.

“Daphne?”

“Simon?” she whispered in disbelief. It made no sense that he was here, but it was his voice. And even though she still hadn't pried her eyes open, it felt like him. The air changed when he was near.

His hands touched her lightly, checking for broken bones. “Tell me where it hurts,” he said.

“Everywhere,” she gasped.

He swore under his breath, but his touch remained achingly gentle and soothing. “Open your eyes,” he ordered softly. “Look at me. Focus on my face.”

She shook her head. “I can't.”

“You can.”

She heard him strip off his gloves, and then his warm fingers were on her temples, smoothing away the tension. He moved to her eyebrows, then the bridge of her nose. “Shhhh,” he crooned. “Let it go. Just let the pain go. Open your eyes, Daphne.”

Slowly, and with great difficulty, she did so. Simon's face filled her vision, and for the moment she forgot everything that had happened between them, everything but the fact that she loved him, and he was here, and he was making the hurt go away.

“Look at me,” he said again, his voice low and insistent. “Look at me and don't take your eyes off of mine.”

She managed the tiniest of nods. She focused her eyes on his, letting the intensity of his gaze hold her still.

“Now, I want you to relax,” he said. His voice was soft but commanding, and it was exactly what she needed. As he spoke, his hands moved across her body, checking for breaks or sprains.

His eyes never once left hers.

Simon kept speaking to her in low, soothing tones as he examined her body for injuries. She didn't appear to have suffered anything worse than a few bad bruises and having the wind knocked out of her, but one could never be too careful, and he hadn’t thrown away his pride and his anger just to have her taken from him now. 

“Daphne,” he said slowly. Carefully. “Do you think you're all right?”

She nodded.

“Are you still in pain?”

“Some,” she admitted, swallowing awkwardly as she blinked. “But it's getting better.”

“Are you certain?”

She nodded again.

“Good,” he said calmly. He was silent for several seconds and then he said in a scarily even tone, “What in God's name did you think you were doing?”

Daphne made a strangled sort of sound that might have metamorphosed into an actual word, but Simon cut her off with more questions, his voice losing composure.

“What the hell were you doing out here with no groom? And why were you galloping here, where the terrain clearly does not allow it?” His eyebrows slammed together. 

“I just needed to ride,” Daphne answered weakly.  When she looked at him her eyes looked far older than her years. “It shouldn’t matter to you. Nothing’s changed. I don’t even know why you’re here.” She squeezed her eyes shut against an onslaught of tears. She hugged her legs to her body and pressed her face against her knees.

Simon stared at her, feeling agonizingly helpless. She wasn’t exactly right, because something had changed, he just couldn’t put his finger on it. All he wanted was to make her feel better, and it didn't much help to know that he was the cause of her pain. 

Simon's lips moved several times before he managed to say, “I don't like to see you so upset.”

She looked at him with a combination of disbelief and regret. “I had everything I ever wanted in my reach and then it got taken away. I don't see how you could expect anything else.”

“I—I—I—” He swallowed, trying to relax his throat, and finally he just said the only thing in his heart. “I want you back.”

She didn't say anything. Simon silently begged her to say something, but she didn't. And he cursed at the gods for her silence, because it meant that he would have to say more.

“When we argued,” he said slowly, “I should’ve said more. I shouldn’t have let you give up. I—I couldn't speak.” He closed his eyes in agony as he felt his jaw tighten. Finally, after a long and shaky exhale, he said, “I hate myself like that.”

Daphne's head tilted slightly as furrows formed in her brow. She hugged her knees to her chest, pondering his words.

She said softly, “You know I don't think less of you when you stammer.”

“I think less of myself.”

She nodded slowly. Of course he would. He was proud and stubborn, and all the ton looked up to him. Men curried his favor, women flirted like mad. And all the while he'd been terrified every time he'd opened his mouth.

Well, maybe not every time, Daphne thought as she gazed into his face. When they were together, he usually spoke so freely, answered her so quickly that she knew he couldn't possibly be concentrating on every word.

She put her hand on his. “You're not the boy your father thought you were.”

“I know that,” he said, but his eyes didn't meet hers.

“Simon, look at me,” she gently ordered. When he did, she repeated her words. “You're not the boy your father thought you were.”

“I know that,” he said again, looking puzzled and maybe just a bit annoyed.

“Are you sure?” she asked softly.

“Damn it, Daphne, I know—” His words tumbled into silence as his body began to shake. For one startling moment, Daphne thought he was going to cry. But the tears that pooled in his eyes never fell, and when he looked up at her, his body shuddering, all he said was, “I hate him, Daphne. I h-h-h—”

She moved her hands to his cheeks and turned his face to hers, forcing him to meet her steady gaze. “That's all right,” she said. “It sounds as if he was a horrid man. But you have to let it go.”

“I can't.”

“You can. It's all right to have anger, but you can't let that be the ruling factor in your life. Even now, you're letting him dictate your choices.”

Simon looked away.

Daphne's hands dropped from his face, but she made sure they rested on his knees. She needed this connection. She feared that if she let go of him right now she'd lose him forever. “Did you ever stop to wonder if you wanted a family? If you wanted a child of your own? You'd be such a wonderful father, Simon, and yet you won't even let yourself consider the notion. You think you're getting your revenge, but you're really just letting him control you from the grave.”

“If I give him a child, he wins,” Simon whispered.

“No, if you give yourself a child, you win.” She swallowed convulsively. “We all win.”

Simon said nothing, but she could see his body shaking.

“If you don't want a child because you don't want one, that's one thing. But if you deny yourself the joy of fatherhood because of a dead man, then you're a coward.”

Daphne winced as the insult crossed her lips, but it had to be said. “At some point you've got to leave him behind and live your own life. You've got to let go of the anger and—”

Simon shook his head, and his eyes looked lost and hopeless. “Don't ask me to do that. It's all I had. Don't you see, it's all I had?”

“I don't understand.”

His voice rose in volume. “Why do you think I learned to speak properly? What do you think drove me? It was anger. It was always anger, always to show him.”

“Simon—”

A bubble of mocking laughter erupted from his throat. “Isn't that just too amusing? I hate him. I hate him so much, and yet he's the one reason I've managed to succeed.”

Daphne shook her head. “That's not true,” she said fervently, “you would have succeeded no matter what. You're stubborn and brilliant, and I know you. You learned to speak because of you, not because of him.” When he said nothing, she added in a soft voice, “If he'd shown you love, it would have made it all the easier.”

Simon started to shake his head, but she cut him off by taking his hand and squeezing it. “I was shown love,” she whispered. “I knew nothing but love and devotion when I was growing up. Trust me, it makes everything easier.”

Simon sat very still for several minutes, the only sound the low whoosh of his breath as he fought to control his emotions. Finally, just when Daphne was beginning to fear she'd lost him, he looked up at her with shattered eyes.

“I want to be happy,” he whispered.

“You will be,” she vowed, wrapping her arms around him. “You will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> i always want to know if there’s something you’d love to see written; if you’re inspired i might be too! stay safe and stay well.


End file.
